Seventeen
by ChaseII
Summary: Ryan's wish to be 17 had meaning from another place and time... Epilogue
1. Chapter 1

**Written for Brandywine's Hiatus Challenge Post**

Opening line prompt: It consumes me, burning

Word prompt: languid, prayers, watercolor

A/N: So, this is where the opening led me… you'd think it would be some smoldering thing, with that opening line, but that's not what came out. The muses were in a quiet mood – more impacted by the words, I guess. (I decided to play with both prompts, just for fun.)

This is in four parts, beginning and ending in March 2005, with snippets from Chino in between. Updates should come smoothly – only minor editing to go.

Oh – this story has some references to little league baseball – for the sake of this story, baseball season is assumed to be summer, even though it appears that the real little league season in California might be spring. I'm from the east coast – what do I know? Summer works better for my time-lines, so I'm sticking with summer.

**Summary: **_Remember Ryan's response to Kirsten in The Gamble, when she asks him what he wants to be now? What if 'seventeen' wasn't made nonsensical by the OC's junior year 'redo'? What if it had resonance from another place and time? _

**SEVENTEEN**

**_March, 2005 _**

_It consumes me, burning through the safeguards I keep so carefully in place, as I turn the calendar page and see his name scrawled across the 19th in Sam's handwriting, the red ink slightly smeared, the letters spilling over a little into the next day's date. _

_Suddenly, I don't care about the overdue supplies I've been fuming about for the last two days. The intense tropical heat no longer registers. _

_The lesson plans I've been working on for tomorrow lie scattered across the hand-hewn table, abandoned, and the pungent smell of simmering garlic and tomato sauce fades until it's imperceptible. _

_I lean back heavily against the rough wooden door frame. Unprotected, I can't support the weight of the hole inside me that's been exposed. _

_Sliding down to the floor, I ride a wave of memories, rolling swift and undisturbed through time, until they break and play out on a very distant shore... _

**June, 1995**

It's a Tuesday, another cloudless day in California, and I'm taking center stage in our newly instituted 'Tales Aloud' summer youth program. Our group has grown a little from yesterday, I'm pleased to see, and includes an encouraging mix of girls and boys. I count 9 children in all, with several parents hovering nearby while I read to the kids from The Adventures of Robin Hood.

Midway through our half-hour time slot, I notice the tousled blond-haired boy hiding quietly under one of our bright blue plastic tables. He's not in our circle, but he's close enough to hear the story. I know he's listening because I can see his facial expressions changing as the tale unfolds.

When I come to my stopping place for the day, several of the children and parents come up to talk, asking for hints about tomorrow's conclusion, and about the week's other programs at the library. By the time we've finished chatting, the small blond child has disappeared.

It's over an hour before I spot him again. This time, he's sitting on the floor back in the stacks, tucked away in a cubby hole between the shelving and the wall. He's got the book I was reading spread open across his lap, and he's so engrossed he doesn't notice me.

"Hi," I say softly, trying not to scare him.

His reaction takes me by surprise.

He looks up from the book, his eyes wide. He crabwalks backwards until his back is pressed firmly against the wall, and sits there, breathing rapidly and clutching the book tightly against his chest.

"It's okay," I sooth, crouching down so I'm nearly sitting on my heels. I smile, wondering why he's so frightened. "I just want to talk to you."

The blue eyes that look up at me are unexpected. He can't be more than six or seven, I think, but his eyes seem far older, with a fear bubbling up to the surface that is unsettling. He blinks and lowers his head as he inches back a fraction further.

"I see you've got one of my favorite books," I say, smiling as comfortingly as I can.

He just sits there, frozen. It's like he's waiting for something. Judging from the posture he's now adopted, I get an uneasy feeling it's not something good.

"Did you like the story today?"

He glances up, shadows filtering through his eyes before he hides his face again. Just as I've decided he's not going to respond, he speaks.

"I'm sorry," he says softly. He thrusts the book out toward me, looking up at me from underneath shaggy blond bangs. "I just wanted to look at it," he explains, adding, "Honest."

"You're welcome to look at the book. That's what it's here for, honey," I assure him, hoping to ease his fear.

Judging from his threadbare jeans and well-worn tennis shoes, I'm guessing this young patron is precisely the audience I've been trying to get inside the library since I accepted this position three months ago. Kids who may not have the means to purchase their own books, but who could access whole new worlds – and worlds of possibilities – inside these walls.

I sit down on the floor in front of him, crossing my legs yoga style. I hope if I'm closer to his level, he'll be less afraid.

When I don't take the book he offers, he blinks again. "I'm sorry," he repeats, so soft now I'm not sure that's really what he said.

"The books are here for you to look at."

"I didn't mean to do it," he mumbles, reaching for a piece of paper lying half-tucked under the closest shelf. He shoves it in my direction, but keeps his head tucked against his chest.

I see it's a page out of the book, and shake my head, "You're upset because this page came loose?"

He nods as he stares at the floor, "I tore it when I was turning the pages." The eyes that finally rise to meet mine are guilt-ridden.

Letting out a relieved breath, I confide, "Sweetie, that page was already loose – it was about to fall out when I was reading earlier. I promise you, it's not your fault."

He looks up at me, blinking. "Honest?"

I nod, "Honest."

He looks down at the book he's still clutching, touching the cover illustration almost reverently.

"You're not mad?"

I shake my head, "I'm not mad at all. I appreciate that you told me, though. I'll make sure I tape the page in so it won't fall out the next time someone looks through it."

He looks up through his bangs, but doesn't say anything.

"I saw you listening during story time. I hoped I'd see you again, so that I could invite you to join us tomorrow, if you'd like to come."

"Tomorrow?"

"Mmm-hmm. More Robin Hood tomorrow. Would you like that?"

He nods without lifting his head.

I offer, "My name is Mrs. Hart – Megan Hart. What's your name?"

When he lifts his face this time, I study it more closely. He's tanned from being out in the sun, and he's got a little dirt smudged across one cheek. The sun-streaked blond hair looks like he's been the victim of an uneven home trim some time ago, with overgrown bangs spilling into his eyes.

He's studying me, too. Those remarkable blue-grey eyes assess me, and I find myself wondering what they find.

I grin a little, "How about just a first name?"

He seems to think about responding, but decides against it.

"Okay. We'll come back to names. Do you live near here?" I ask.

He nods his head again, but returns his eyes to the book.

"Who takes care of you?"

"My mom." He anticipates my next question, peering up at me from underneath his bangs, "She said I could come," he tells me, adding, "She said there'd be a lot of books here to look at, if I was careful with them."

"She's right," I answer, making a mental note to thank this child's mother for steering him toward the library. His eyes tell me he's still worried about the torn page. "And I'll tell her how careful you were so she'll let you come back. Okay?"

He nods, looking around at the stacks which surround us, eyeing the books hungrily. "I wish I could read all these books," he says, "But I don't know all the words."

"You'll learn," I promise, smiling.

"Really?" his eyes are eager, like I'm offering him a room full of candy.

"Really."

I am inordinately pleased when he smiles shyly.

Encouraged, I lean toward him, "So, you never told me your name."

His smile disappears, as he ducks his head once more.

Not willing to give up, I tease, "I think I'll call you 'Little John'".

His eyes are suddenly fiery as he looks up and me and snaps, "I'm not little!"

Oops. "I didn't mean it like that. Little John was one of Robin Hood's bravest, strongest men. Besides, Little John was actually very big."

His voice is loaded with skepticism as he asks, "How big?"

"Want to see?"

He nods.

I reach out, and take the book from his hands. He relinquishes it like I might relinquish the Hope diamond – more than a little reluctantly. I carefully turn to an illustration which shows Robin and Little John fighting with staffs over a stream.

"See them here, on the footbridge?" I say, turning the book so he can see it better and pointing to the page.

He seems to forget his shyness, overcome by curiosity. He crawls out of the corner, and squeezes up next to me. He sticks an index finger next to Little John, and looks up, his eyes asking me for confirmation.

"That's Little John, alright. See? He's almost twice as big as Robin Hood."

"Humph."

I look down at my nameless friend, and notice that he's skipped ahead to the next illustration, where Little John is sitting in the water, having been defeated by the smaller man.

"Sometimes being quick is better than being big," I point out.

"Yeah, but most times it's not," he counters flatly. "I'm going to be tall and super strong when I'm older. But I'm still going to be quick," he adds.

"How old are you now?"

"Seven."

Up close, his body seems too small for seven, I think.

His attention is back on the book. "How old is Little John?"

"How old do you think he is?"

"Old." He scrunches up his face, before he adds, "Maybe seventeen."

I try not to sputter as I realize that at thirty-one I must seem positively ancient to this child.

"Seventeen is 'old'?" I ask, intrigued as always by the relativity of age.

He nods, "Yeah. That's how old Julio is, and he's finished school and works at Volvano's Restaurant with my mom. He's really tall and he's got big muscles – no one messes with Julio, ever."

I raise my eyebrows, "So, you'll be tall, strong, and quick when you're seventeen?" I don't add in the part about 'so no one messes with you', even though I'm thinking that's an important piece of what the boy's saying.

He nods vigorously.

"I bet you're right," I say encouragingly, despite all evidence to the contrary. I probe a little further, "What else will you be when you grow up? What do you want to be?"

He bites his lip, thinking. He looks up at me from underneath long blond eyelashes as he says, "I guess probably a baseball player."

"You like baseball?"

"Yeah. I got two trophies in Tee Ball last year," he says, his voice more animated than before.

"Two trophies? That's amazing," I say, impressed. "What were they for?"

He squares his shoulders as he answers, "I got one for most hits on our team, and the other one was for being the best all around player. My brother even thought that one was cool, and he doesn't like tee-ball too much, 'cause he thinks it's not really baseball when you don't have pitchers. He says he's the reason I got Best All Around, and he's right. He taught me a lot more than the coaches did, 'cause the teams were only allowed to practice one hour a week, and Trey practiced with me almost every day."

The boy's reticence has vanished as he talks about a game he seems to love. I wish my husband Sam were here to ask good questions, but I take a stab, "What position do you play?"

He shrugs, "I can play wherever they need me, but I like infield most – it's got the most action. Some of the little kids can't even hit all the way out to the outfield, so if you're out there a lot of the time you don't get to field anything."

"Oh," I say, sure he's right.

His new excitement is unabated as he confides eagerly, "This year, I'm going to play in the minor league, where I don't have to hit off a stupid tee anymore."

"Is that right?" I'm pleased to think I at least know enough to know what a 'tee' is.

"Yeah. My brother says hitting off the tee's for babies, so he taught me to hit without it last fall. And guess what? I hit the ball nearly as far as he did last time we practiced, and he's almost eleven."

For the first time, I hear a hint of cockiness creep into his voice. Even at seven, he's got the self-assurance of an athlete who knows he's good at his chosen sport.

I look at him more closely, realizing that while he's small, he's built solidly. I'm guessing this kid can back up any claims of prowess with performance.

"So, maybe I should call you 'Ace'," I suggest.

He snorts, but then seems to reconsider. "That'd be okay, I guess."

"Although, I'd love to know your real name," I coax hopefully.

"Why?" He's staring up at me, challenging me to give him an answer he'll believe.

"Because I'm new here, and I'm looking for new friends. I'd like for us to be friends," I answer truthfully. His honesty about the book intrigues me, particularly given how frightened he seemed to be.

He sits up on his knees, facing me. His head ducks down, and I see his eyebrows knit together. When he looks up, he smiles shyly.

I feel like a small candle has been lit in our private little corner of the library. I watch the flame flicker softly, lighting the child's face and eyes from within.

"I'm new here, too," he admits. "We used to live in Fresno."

"Then we've got at least two things in common," I say.

He looks up at me, "We're both new… and what else? Did you live in Fresno, too?"

"No, I lived back east. I meant we both like books," I answer.

He blinks, and then slowly shakes his head in agreement.

Ducking his head once more, he looks up at me through his eyelashes.

"My name is Ryan," he offers softly, his eyes unfiltered.

I smile, grasping in that instant that he's offering far more than just his name. He's offering his trust.

----------------------------------

I don't see him the next day until nearly the end of the story. He's not under a table, and I don't see him in the circle until Mrs. Rodriguez moves and I realize he's been hiding behind her sizable frame. He disappears while I'm chatting with the children and their parents, but before I can search through the stacks to see if he's hiding out there again, I have to return a call to our district supervisor.

As I'm hanging up the telephone, I see him standing in my office doorway.

"Mrs. Hart?"

I smile, pleased that he remembers my name. "Hi, Ryan. I'm so glad you came back today. I'm sorry I didn't get to meet your mom yesterday – I wanted to thank her for sending you our way."

He looks down at his feet, appearing uncomfortable, but he doesn't say anything.

I stand up, and move around to the front of my desk. "Maybe I'll get to see her today."

"She's here right now," he mumbles. "And she wants to talk to you, too."

He's skittish, backing up a little as I reach out a hand to touch him. Noting his reaction, I reach out instead with words, "I'm looking forward to meeting her."

He stares at me, moving uneasily from one foot to the other. I hear someone's raised voice outside my door, followed swiftly by a solidly built blond woman's appearance. Her hair is long and wavy, and she's dressed in denim and lace. She's frowning as she fills my doorframe.

"You Mrs. Hart?" she asks abruptly, her voice a little too loud.

I cross to meet her, "I'm Megan Hart," I clarify, noting Ryan's retreat to a position behind one of my two office chairs.

She takes the hand I offer, and shakes it firmly, her eyes sizing me up at she does. "I'm Dawn Atwood," she says, sounding frustrated. "I'm his mother," she adds, jerking her chin in her son's direction.

I point toward one of the chairs, "Won't you sit down, Mrs. Atwood?"

She shakes her head 'no', "I gotta' be at work in just a few minutes, so I don't have time. I just wanted to apologize for my kid, and let you know he won't be tearing up any more of your stuff." She turns to glare at Ryan as she says scathingly, "He knows exactly what'll happen if he does, right Ryan?"

He nods, his eyes wide and his body tense.

Suddenly quite uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation, I tender, "I don't know what you think happened, Mrs. Atwood, but I assure you that your son was perfectly well-behaved yesterday."

She scowls at Ryan, "I thought you said you told her about that book! You'd better not be lying to me!"

Ryan shrinks back, "I did, I swear." He looks desperately at me.

I try to diffuse the tension with the truth, "Mrs. Atwood, Ryan told me that a page fell out of a book while he was looking through it. I explained to him that the page was already torn – that he wasn't at fault in any way. As far as I'm concerned, Ryan saved it for us, and thanks to him it's been repaired."

She looks at me a little like the proverbial deer in the headlights, before shaking her head in acknowledgement of what I've just said. When she speaks, her voice has softened, "Oh. That's not what… Okay. Good."

She pauses, before asking a little hesitantly, "So then it's really okay with you if he comes back here?"

"Absolutely," I say enthusiastically. "I'm hoping we'll see a lot of Ryan."

She purses her lips as though she's trying to come to terms with what she's hearing, and then she smiles, moving toward her son and holding out her hand. I watch as Ryan steps out from behind the chair, hesitantly allowing her to pull him into a one-armed hug.

She beams a little, her voice taking on honeyed tones, "He's a really good kid, most of the time." She ruffles his hair, which brings a frown to the boy's face. "And he loves books, don't you Ry?"

"Um-hmm," he mumbles, looking embarrassed.

Mrs. Atwood glances at her watch, and her facial expression tells me she's running late. "Gotta' go," she says hastily, backing up toward the door. "Sorry if I seemed a little rough on Ryan, but if you knew my other son, you'd understand. I don't need another Trey on my hands."

Before I can say anything she waves at Ryan, "But you're the good one, right baby?"

Ryan grimaces, and bites his lip, but his mother doesn't seem to notice his discomfort.

She smiles one last time at me, "See you around, then," she tosses back as she disappears, leaving Ryan and I alone.

"So, I hope I will see a lot of you here," I say quietly, hoping the words will comfort him.

He bites his lip, "Really?"

I nod, "I need a helper. Someone to teach me about baseball, since I think a lot of the kids here play. And someone to talk about stories with. I was hoping I could count on you."

He stares at me beat, and then shrugs affably, "I'm a good helper."

I grin, "Okay then. So, first question -- did you like the story today?"

He frowns. "Mostly."

"Mostly?" I'm a little surprised. Most kids love Robin Hood.

His frown deepens, "I thought it was wrong to steal."

"It is wrong to steal," I agree, hastily pulling together arguments I think a seven year old will understand regarding Robin's actions.

"My dad stole money, and he's in prison." Ryan's eyes teem with conflicting emotions, and I'm at a loss as to how to separate them.

"I'm sorry," I say solemnly, wondering what else I should say.

He shakes his head, and says coldly, "I'm not." This time the loathing in his eyes trumps all other emotions.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask, wondering how far over my head I might be getting.

Ryan shakes his head 'no', but he's not finished. He steps closer as he asks pointedly, "Do you think Robin Hood stopped stealing once King Richard came back?"

I kneel down, eye level with Ryan. "I'm sure he stopped."

He pinches his lips together with one hand as he mulls that over, finally nodding, "Good."

-------------------------

Except that he still has questions. Lots of them.

We end up talking about Robin Hood for months. It's easy to forget Ryan's only seven as we hold discussions about the harsh life of the peasants, and the cruelty of Prince John. About how the poor had no one looking out for them. About tyranny and injustice. About possible justification for unlawful acts.

He tends to think about the bigger picture rather than confining his thoughts to what's in the story. He's none too happy that King Richard left his subjects unprotected in the first place. He says the people deserved a better king.

He doesn't speak of his father again – that subject seems firmly closed. However, he really surprises me when he brings up the Oklahoma bombing, and asks whether Timothy McVeigh's actions were justified. I don't know many seven year olds who watch the news, let alone make that kind of leap in logic.

Clearly, Ryan's not your ordinary child…

_tbc_

_Reviews always appreciated…_


	2. Chapter 2 of 4

**Title: Seventeen  
**  
**Author:** ChaseII

**Story Rating:** T (overall content / language)

**Disclaimer:** The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, _et. al_. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made. (Applies to all chapters!)

**A/N:** Unbeta'd -- all mistakes are mine!

**(Written for Brandywine's Hiatus Challenge Post)**

**Opening line** **prompt:** It consumes me, burning

**Word prompt:** languid, prayers, watercolor

**Summary: **_What if Ryan's wish to be 'seventeen' in The Gamble hadn't been made nonsensical by the OC's junior year redo? What if it had resonance from another place and time?_

**Seventeen**

**Part 2 of 4**

**1998**

Ryan's in the shadows again today. It's the third day in a row he's avoided me, and I can't say that I blame him. I set out to find him, pretty sure I know where he'll be.

He still likes the cubbyhole between the stacks and the wall, where I found him the first day we met. He doesn't fit there quite so well these days – he's still fairly short for a ten-year-old, but he's more solid than before. I spot his hair in the shadows, streaked corn silk blond from the California sunshine. His face is hidden from view.

"Ryan?" I whisper, feeling a little uneasy.

He refuses to look up, but he answers, his voice laden with accusation. "I trusted you."

"I'm sorry, Ryan. I thought I was doing the right thing." I sink down to the floor, pressing my back against the wall.

"Might for right?" he snorts, still not looking up at me.

I'm reminded of our most recent rounds of discussions, centering on King Arthur and his knights. Ryan's fascination with Camelot and chivalry has been bordering on obsessive. He's read through all the Arthurian books in his grade bracket – actually, through almost all the children's and even the young adult books on the subject. He's even tried reading some adult fiction, plowing through the dictionary for words he's not familiar with.

"I just wanted to help you, sweetie," I plead, frustrated that Child Services again did nothing to help this child, even though I begged them to look below the surface this time. To look past the cover stories of a self-obsessed alcoholic and her too-protective son.

He rakes his hands through his hair, keeping his face firmly out of sight. "You just made it worse. Don't you get that?"

I swallow, guilt weighing heavily on my shoulders. I get it.

Damn it to hell. I finally get it.

He's never going to tell the truth about what goes on inside their home. And she's never going to change.

Neither one of them will ever testify against the assholes that make their lives a living hell. She won't because she's too insecure to live without a man, and too selfish to care that the men she chooses are destroying her family from the inside out.

He won't because he still hopes he can save her, or at least protect her. He's terrified that telling the truth about their life will mean he'll be taken away, and that she'll be left defenseless.

And as long as there are a thousand other cases vying for their attention, Child Services will direct their limited resources somewhere where they have some scintilla of hope their actions will have an impact.

"What can I do, Ryan? How can I make it better?"

He lifts his head, and I see his right eye is swollen, and his cheek is a mottled purple and yellow. I feel like throwing up, knowing I'm probably responsible for the damage I can see. I wonder how many more bruises are hidden away, out of sight, that I'm responsible for, too.

"There's nothing you can do. There's nothing anyone can do," he says bitterly. "Until I'm bigger. Until might does make right."

"When you're old?" I offer softly, knowing he'll understand.

He's no longer seven, but we still play the game. It's changed a little over the years – we've added and subtracted, but it's still rooted in his early fantasy. I think of it as our secret code for hope.

He rolls his eyes, smirking glumly, "Yeah. When I'm seventeen."

**2000**

Ryan's actually smiling, and I realize how rarely I see that anymore. My husband Sam finally convinced the boy to take me up on my invitation to come over for steaks on the grill. It's been a hard sell – even though heaven knows he's earned it.

I can't count the stacks of books he's shelved for us, or the times he's set up the chairs for my reading circles, or the patient way he helps Enrico and Bobby sound out words.

I know he uses the library as his safe place. The bigger boys don't bother him there – they're far too 'cool' to darken a library door. He escapes there on the bad days, too. When his mother's flavor of the month is on a rampage, or when he's too bruised or battered to show his face at school.

On the worst days, the police and/or Child Services might show up at the library, asking questions. I still try talking to the new caseworkers – the ones that aren't bored or jaded by repeated failures, but it seems no one ever listens very long. Dawn sobers up, swears she's not going back to Sid or Snake or Tattoo Turko, and the authorities wipe their hands and put another notation in their files. They don't see the new bruises that arrive after they've gone. The ones that are visible, or the ones that Ryan hides inside.

But this isn't one of the bad days. It's a good day – a day for celebrating. I've been trying to get Sam and Ryan together for years, but between Sam's near-phobia with respect to spending time with children, and Ryan's distinct aversion to men in general, I've never been able to pull it off.

It wouldn't have worked this time, either, but for the fact that Sam knew how much their meeting meant to me. I could barely contain myself as I heard my child-wary husband charm Ryan into accepting our invitation. Now, I'm enjoying watching the two of them together.

Sam's showing Ryan the blueprints he's working on, spreading them across our dining room table. "See, right there. The center's entrance is going to have eight arches."

Ryan's eyes are shining as he compares the drawings to the scale models on the other end of the table. He starts firing questions at Sam that obviously surprise my husband. Sam answers each query, his own enthusiasm growing by the minute.

"Wait right there," Sam coaches, holding up one finger as he backs away. He passes me at the door, whispering in my ear, "This kid asks better questions than most of the interns on our staff."

"Told you," I whisper back, inordinately pleased that my husband's so impressed.

Soon, the two of them have half his architectural reference books spread out across the dining room table, talking about styles and periods and functionality versus fashion and design elements.

Sam's regaling Ryan with stories of his best friend Smith Reynolds, and how the two of them worked together bringing roads and community centers to rural Appalachia. How he's involved with Architects for Humanity, and the projects he's working on right now.

Ryan's eyes are fairly dancing, and by the time we settle in for steaks, he's even laughing. He and Sam make plans to take a walking tour of Chino, with Sam pointing out the various building of architectural significance in town.

A lot of people would laugh at the thought of any building in Chino having architectural significance, but Sam's taught me to see distinctions where I would have said none existed. He's taught me that this town of dairy farmers and middle class families has much to offer if I'm willing to look beneath its surface. He says Chino's more than the sum of its three penal institutions and seventy plus thousand people.

He admits that the town has its faults – but then he asks what city doesn't? Granted, the underbelly of this town – like countless others – can be rough and unforgiving, but in the very center of even the worst of the poverty and grit, Sam swears there are diamonds waiting to be discovered.

That's what I love about Sam. It's how he convinced me to come here with him in the first place. His visions of what could be.

Instead of aging slums and parking lots, he sees fresh-faced apartment buildings and civic centers with fountains and parks. Sam sees cities and counties in transformation.

Like Sam, I have visions, too. Instead of hopeless cycles of poverty and failure, I see kids and communities soaring far beyond their wildest expectations. I see countless possibilities opening to them through the power and magic of books. I see lives in transformation.

"Honey?" Sam whispers, sliding a hand around my waist as I rinse dishes in the kitchen.

"He's my diamond," I say softly, watching Ryan in the dining room studying the blueprints, his tongue running across his lips as he concentrates.

Sam squeezes me close to him, nuzzling my neck as he whispers back, "Yeah. About that -- hoped maybe we could share…"

**2001**

I hear loud voices coming from the back of the stacks, and head in that direction. I find Ryan glaring at his older brother, his eyes steely.

"Give it back, Trey," he snarls, holding out his hand for Trey to return a book the older boy must have taken from the book cart Ryan's using for shelving.

Trey smirks, "Or what, you little bitch? You'll take away my library card?"

"Just give it back. Now." Ryan's words suddenly grow ice cold.

"Boys," I interject, not wanting this to get out of hand. I've seen the two of them mixing it up pretty good the last couple of days, but up until now they've kept it outside. I don't know what's going on, but I know Ryan's tells, and that icy voice is one of them.

Trey turns on me, and I notice his lip is split and he has a cut over his left eye. He growls, "Stay the fuck out of this, bitch. This is between Ry and me."

"Don't talk to her like that," Ryan warns, his hands clinching into fists as he takes a step toward the older boy.

Trey snorts, holding up the book he's clutching so that he can see the title, "Watercolors, bro? Learning about stupid watercolor pictures for your girlfriend T? Or maybe you got another girlfriend? Got the hots for an older woman, Ry? Think maybe you can score with her?" He jerks his head pointedly toward me.

"That's enough!" My tone is sharp enough that both boys look up. "Trey, give me the book." I hold out my hand, and lock onto his eyes.

I have to admit, I'm a little surprised when he grudgingly hands the volume over.

"God, Ry, since when did you start letting a librarian fight your fights? You're fucking pathetic!" Trey sneers, even though he doesn't look at Ryan.

"Shut up, and get out of here," Ryan warns, his voice breaking through the staring match I realize I'm waging with his brother.

Trey turns to Ryan and smirks, "Fine, LB. I'm going. But just so you know? That new dress shirt Dawn's live-in bought you last week for the fuckin' school pictures? Too fucking bad you got all that grease on it, bro. Take it from me, Ry – Striker's not gonna' like how you take care of your shit."

The color has drained out of Ryan's face. He closes his eyes, "Shit, Trey. He's gonna'…" His words stop mid-sentence.

Trey steps up to him, scowling, "Yeah. You got it, Ry. Your ass is busted, bitch. You ever mess with my stuff again – get me in trouble with that asshole again – and I promise you, it's gonna' be a whole lot worse. You'll be wishing for another round with Striker."

Trey spins on his heel and strides away, flinging an extended middle finger back toward both of us in a parting gesture.

I turn back to Ryan. "What was that all about?" I ask, alarmed.

Ryan glares up at me, furious – so angry that he's shaking.

He shocks me by striking out, swinging one arm violently across the top of book cart, knocking the volumes resting there into the floor. Not satisfied, he kicks at the books that land in front of him, sending two of them spiraling across the aisle.

His voice is filled with animosity as he hisses, "If I ever need your help, I'll ask for it!"

Stunned, I can only stand mutely, staring as he stalks angrily out of the library.

----------------------------------

I pull into my driveway four hours later, still upset, when I see Ryan's bike lying on my lawn. He's sitting on my front step, his head buried on top of his knees.

He looks up as I approach, his expression wary.

"Hey," I try, figuring it's a safe opening.

"I'm sorry," he offers softly.

"I was just trying to help," I feel compelled to explain. "You know that, right?"

He nods contritely, "Yes, ma'am."

'Ma'am' isn't a word he uses very often when he's talking to me. It's another tell. He only uses it when he's dealing with authority figures, or when he's feeling particularly penitent and wants to make amends.

I sit down on the step beside him, feeling a little guilty myself. Not for what I did, but for what I'm about to do.

"So, are you going to tell me what that was all about today?" I ask gently.

He shakes his head, "It was nothing."

"It didn't sound like 'nothing'" I press, wondering if I'm wrong about how far he's willing to go to make up for his behavior.

He rolls his eyes unhappily, but still makes himself answer, "Trey thinks I broke his sunglasses. Striker gave him some stupid Ray-Bans or something. They weren't even cool, but I guess they cost a lot. Striker flipped out, and Trey's been raging ever since. Guess he thinks he's even now."

This much I know about Ryan Atwood. The kid doesn't shirk responsibility for things he does wrong. He's far more likely to accept blame for things that aren't his fault.

"You didn't break the sunglasses," I state, certain that I'm right.

Ryan shrugs, "Doesn't seem to matter."

I see the troubled look that flashes through his eyes, and conclude, "But you know who did, don't you?"

He looks genuinely surprised. "How did you know?"

I smile sadly. I'm not going to explain to him how much his eyes tell about what he's thinking. I know it's selfish, but I don't want to lose that window. It's far too precious.

I counter by asking a question of my own. "Who was it?"

He frowns, "You're asking who let Trey pay for something he didn't do?"

Nodding, I wonder if he'll tell me.

He stares down at the sidewalk for a long moment, rubbing one palm uneasily across his denimed thigh. I barely hear him as he softly whispers, "Dawn."

I think it's the first time I've ever heard him refer to her as anything but 'Mom'.

"Come with me," I say, my voice as steady as I can make it.

He looks up, puzzled. "Where?"

I put my arm around his shoulders, "We're going to buy a shirt."

His eyes widen, "Why?"

"Because I want one of your school pictures. Because you volunteer your time helping me at the library. Because you entertain Sam on Saturday afternoons while I meet with my writer's group."

I don't tell him its because I can't stand the thought of some asshole beating the crap out of him, and my not being able to do anything to stop it.

I don't tell him that it's because I love him.

"She won't buy the pictures," he finally says. "They cost too much."

"Bring them to me, then," I say. "Sam and I will buy them."

"A new shirt won't change things," he tries to tell me. "Trey's not gonna' stop until he thinks he's even."

I shake my head, "Did you try telling him the truth?"

"That Dawn lied to Striker?"

I swallow the bile that rises in my throat, as I think about a mother intentionally selling out an innocent child. Even when that child is Trey.

"Did you?" I press.

He shakes his head 'no'.

"Why not?" I realize my voice has sharpened, and I cringe as Ryan drops his head instinctively.

"Ryan?" I reach out to cup his neck, waiting until he raises his face. His eyes are liquid, threatening to overrun. I think they must mirror my own.

His voice is barely audible as he replies, "I never want Trey to know she'd do that to him."

-------------------------------

Ryan finally lets me buy the shirt, but insists I keep it safely stashed away in the library, so Trey won't find it and ruin it, too.

When he doesn't stop by to get it before picture day, I worry. I see Theresa the following day and ask her where he is. She tells me that he had a bike accident. That he broke his nose and his left arm. That he's staying at home for a few days.

We both know she's lying. We both know why.

That night, Sam goes with me to Ryan's house. Striker and Dawn come out onto the porch, claiming Ryan's not at home. My husband has a conversation with Striker that ends with Sam getting his face bloodied and then landing flat on his ass in the scraggly lawn. While Dawn postures and swears she knows nothing about how Ryan was injured, I dial 911.

The upside? Sam doesn't hesitate to press charges and Striker's serving time in jail.

The downside? The police come, and Child Services come, but in the end Ryan's still with Dawn, and Dawn's still an unholy mess.

Ryan avoids Sam and I for weeks, finally showing up one Saturday with little league photos. The picture must have been taken just after his cast came off. His left arm is pale in the photo. His nose is not the perfect shape it used to be, either. It doesn't matter – he's still one damned good looking kid.

He's pitching this year, he tells us. Things are better at home. Dawn's working again. Trey's gone a lot these days. Theresa's talked him into helping out with the summer drama program, building sets.

As he mounts his bike, he suddenly turns back to us, resting one tennis shoe on the sidewalk for balance.

"Thanks," he says, a world of meaning in that single word. He flicks his eyebrows, and pushes off before we can reply.

We watch him as he pedals out of sight.

----------------------------

The summer passes. We catch most of Ryan's games – he's got a wicked fastball, and unlike the majority of the league's pitchers, he's got an impressive batting average, too.

We're at one of those games when Ryan introduces us to Rick.

"So, you're the set designer," I say. Ryan's been talking about the Texan for the last month.

The man has an easy smile, and his voice is accented with a thick, southern drawl. "That'd be me. Although I have to tell you, this guy here did a good bit of the design work. I'm more into the construction end of things."

He squeezes Ryan's shoulder fondly, causing the boy to smile up at him.

Ryan nods toward Sam, "Mr. Hart's the real designer. I learned everything I know from him."

Sam puffs up with pride before he warns Rick, "Word to the wise, my friend. This kid's a real quick study. He's gonna' be going places – I'm guessing we'll both be working for him someday."

Rick's laugh is genuine, "Someday? You haven't been down to the theater, have you? I'm working for him right now!"

Rolling his eyes, Ryan snorts, "Yeah, sure."

I wink at Ryan, "Just promise me this – when Sam's working for you, make sure he gets at least a month's vacation, okay?"

Ryan laughs, dropping his head as his laughter dissolves into a classic Ryan smirk. Looking up at us through his bangs, he promises dryly, "I'll be sure to have my HR people look into it."

"Look into what?" Dawn asks, sidling up beside Rick possessively. Her perfume is flowery, and a little overwhelming, making me back up a step.

I take in her appearance from my new vantage point, noting that she's dressed in jeans and a deep v-neck cotton pullover, with her hair pulled up off her neck and clipped in the back. For once, her make-up is nearly subtle, and her smile seems rather sweet.

"Hey, baby," she greets her son. "Sorry I'm late, but Gibson let me work a little overtime, and I didn't think you'd mind. How'd you do?"

Ryan's smile offers forgiveness for being tardy. I expect he's thrilled she shows up at all – it's only the second time I've seen her at one of his games all summer.

"He struck out nine guys, and only gave up two hits," beams Rick, but it's clear from Dawn's reaction that those statistics are meaningless to her.

"We won, Mom," Ryan offers. "I did okay."

"Better than okay, Mrs. Atwood," I insist. "Ace here is a superstar."

I see Rick's fingers close over her hand, as Dawn glows. "He's my good boy, aren't you Ry? He ain't nothing like his brother."

She's oblivious to the silence her words engender, as she prattles on, "I guess you know Trey's serving time in juvie right now. Honestly, I don't know what gets into that boy sometimes. I mean, I do my very best to raise them both right, and I get this one who listens to me," she nods toward Ryan, "and one I just can't do nothin' with. A real bad seed, like his daddy."

Sam's fingers tighten over mine, silently begging me not to say something we'll all regret.

Ryan's smile disappears, "Trey's made some mistakes, but he's not a 'bad seed'. Trey's your son, too, Mom."

Dawn's eyes widen, and her face turns a little red. "Sure, baby. I didn't mean nothing, Ry, I swear. I just get nervous sometimes, and say stuff I don't really mean. It's gonna' be okay – Trey'll learn his lesson in juvie, and things'll be different when he comes home. You'll see."

She smiles hopefully at Ryan, who does his best to muster an answering smile.

"Sure, Mom," he forgives again. "Things will be different when Trey comes home."

I notice Rick's hand rubbing soothingly over Ryan's upper arm, and Ryan's half-step back toward the Texan. It's a good sign – Ryan doesn't trust many people.

We all stand there awkwardly for a moment before Dawn speaks again, this time to Rick. Her voice is sparkly again, as though the conversation about Trey never happened.

She gushes, "What are we standing around here waiting for? It's high time we celebrate our superstar's performance, isn't it?" She looks across at us, "You guys wanna' come with us to Western Steer? They got good beef tips there, don't they, Ry?"

Ryan merely nods, obviously uncomfortable. I expect he's contemplating an entire dinner filled with awkward moments.

"Thanks, really, but Sam and I are meeting some friends for dinner," I lie, knowing I've done the right thing when I see Ryan's shoulders relax.

A few minutes later, as the trio head off toward Rick's truck, Sam and I compare notes. We both like Rick – he seems genuinely nice. Dawn's still the antithesis of an ideal mother, but at least she's sober and she seems to be making some effort to pull her act together.

"It might just work out for him this time," Sam offers, his voice cautiously optimistic.

I close my eyes, trying to visualize a future where Dawn stays sober. Where she doesn't disappoint her younger son.

"Honey?" Sam squeezes my hand.

"I hope so," I say.

And I do.

Hope.

_tbc_

_A/N 2: Reviews appreciated!_


	3. Chapter 3 of 4

**Title: Seventeen  
**  
**Author:** ChaseII

**Story Rating:** T (overall content / language)

**Disclaimer:** The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, _et. al_. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made.

**A/N:** Unbeta'd -- all mistakes are mine!

**(Written for Brandywine's Hiatus Challenge Post)**

**Opening line** **prompt:** It consumes me, burning

**Word prompt:** languid, prayers, watercolor

**Summary: **_What if Ryan's wish to be 'seventeen' had meaning from another place and time?_

**-----------------------------**

**Seventeen**

**Part 3 of 4**

**-----------------------------**

**2002**

Ryan's got new heroes these days. He's taken with Atticus Finch from 'To Kill a Mockingbird', and after we watch 'Inherit the Wind' on video, he spends hours reading about Clarence Darrow and the Scopes Monkey trial. I ask him if he wants to be a lawyer when he grows up, and he glares at me, saying not if the court-appointed lawyers Trey's had are any indication of what most lawyers are really like.

He says he wants to be an architect. Sam's ecstatic.

Sam and Ryan pour over building designs, debating whether I.M. Pie's modern steel and glass pyramid-shaped entry to the Louvre is an eyesore or pure genius, they discuss Gaudi's La Sagrada Familia, marveling at the man's unique style, they use Sam's 3-D programs to explore structures like the Parthenon Temple, the Temple of Amun, Karnak, Notre Dame Cathedral, and the Colesseum.

They talk about building projects close to home, too. They don't limit their discussions to the civic center, inner-city restoration, and public parks that Sam's been working with. They talk about some of the large architectural firms in the surrounding area, reviewing the projects they are most closely associated with and discussing which design elements they like and which ones don't work for them.

Predictably, Sam can't keep from telling stories about his pal Smith Reynolds, who's just finished a major project in Africa with Architects for Humanity, and who's now working hard to secure funding for an even bigger project in South America. Smith's doing the type of work that Sam dreams about, and Sam's enthusiasm is not lost on Ryan.

I'm touched as I watch the two of them huddled together over books, or plans, or the computer. When Ryan's not challenging Sam, or asking questions, he's listening raptly. They belong together, I think selfishly, wishing for the thousandth time that Ryan were ours. Thinking how he's everything we could have ever wished for, had Sam and I been able to have a son.

-----------------------------

Ryan's love for books is unabated – when he reads through 'Fahrenheit 451' for a school assignment, he asks me a thousand questions about censorship and book bans. The subject disturbs him deeply, as he equates intolerant attitudes toward books with the narrow-minded judgments he sees people make about those unlike themselves.

I'm reminded uncomfortably of how many people tell me I should steer clear of Ryan and his family – that they're 'no good'. That I'm a fool to waste my time with a kid who is doomed by circumstances to fail. It breaks my heart to hear first-hand the prejudice he faces, based on nothing more than the accident of birth.

But Ryan's angry – not defeated. His resilience continues to astound me. Still, when I delve deeper, he sloughs off further discussions, redirecting our conversations to areas that are not as sensitive. Hoping I'm not making a mistake, I pull back, and we don't discuss the matter further.

-------------------------

He reads Lance Armstrong's book, and he and Sam add cycling to their ever-growing list of preferred sports. They patiently explain the ins and outs of cycling to me when I join one of their lengthy cycling-viewing vigils, but the only thing I find interesting is the biker's shorts which makes Ryan blush and Sam guffaw. I tell them I'm still trying to figure out soccer, and that I'll pay more attention to cycling if and when Ryan takes it up, too. For right now, his baseball, football, and soccer are as much as I can keep straight, and I've still got a way to go with soccer.

Personally, I far prefer Ryan's continued foray into the realm of fantasy, and love when he and I are discussing Tolkien or Greek mythology or even Harry Potter. I push him to read _The Little Prince_, which he does to humor me. He even brings me a rough sketch of a sheep muzzle, and says I need to stop worrying about a boxed sheep and some stupid rose.

I don't tell him I think of him as my fox, waiting to be tamed – in danger from the hunters if he is. I don't admit I worry far more about my fox than any 'stupid' rose.

----------------------------

Things are still working out between Dawn and Rick, and Ryan's laughing a lot more often. It's not that he hasn't had some issues – most of them related in some form or fashion to Theresa. He's even been suspended from school a couple of times for fighting with Eddie on school grounds. I see Theresa playing one of them against the other, and then feigning surprise when fists fly between them.

He works so hard to please her – taking a role in the school play, working evenings at one of the local dairies to earn enough money to take her to some big dance… But it's not enough to keep her from making out with Eddie in plain view of Ryan and half the school. Ryan says nothing, but it seems they're in a kind of holding pattern these days. Not really dating, but more than simply friends.

I hear some of the middle school girls talking as they 'study' in the library after school. More than a few seem to have their eyes on Ryan, and from the pieces of their conversation I've caught, I gather the kid's not too shy about taking them up on what's being offered. I find it reassuring that while some of these girls are disturbingly open about 'hooking up', Ryan doesn't say a word.

I make Sam speak with Ryan about safety, but the boy says he has it covered. I shudder to think that might be some sort of pun. Still, good to know that Rick or Trey must be watching out for him – I'm 99 certain Dawn isn't.

-------------------------------

Ryan's not playing baseball this summer. Rick offers him a gopher job on his construction crew. Judging from the upper body and arm muscles the kid develops over the summer, I'm guessing that Rick's letting Ryan do more than carry messages and water. And this new, improved Ryan? Theresa had better stop jerking him around, because the boy's going to have even more of those other girls vying for his attention.

It's the end of August when Sam comes home late from a business dinner, guiding a staggering Ryan through the door. The boy smells like stale cigarette smoke and warm beer.

Sam looks at me, shaking his head as he scowls.

Ryan's not scowling. He's giggling.

"You need a beer," Ryan says to me, weaving a little as he points in my direction. "Everybody needs another beer," he sing-songs.

He's drunk, which surprises me. That is, I know the other boys he hangs out with drink, but I've never seen Ryan with any type of alcohol. And I've certainly never seen him drunk before.

"I think you need water," I say, knowing he's probably dehydrated.

Sam has to grab him as he flings an arm up into the air, trying to point toward me and throwing himself off balance in the process. His hand slides down the side of Sam's face as he hiccups, "No water. More beer."

Sam takes Ryan's hand, and removes it from his face. He maneuvers Ryan to the kitchen table, and deposits him in a chair – one of the two with arms. Ryan slides down, like his bones are made of something pliable, until he's partially collapsed on top the table.

I watch Sam dig a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his jacket pocket and toss them on the counter. It's not the first pack we've taken away from Ryan – sadly, I'm almost certain that it won't be the last.

"What on earth?" I ask under my breath when Sam turns back to me.

"Found him staggering down Chino Avenue, waving a bottle of beer in one hand. Luckily, when I pulled over, he agreed to crawl – and I do mean 'crawl' – into the car. I promised him we'd find some more beer, but I figured we'd sort that out when we got home. Home being here, and not his house. Not until we find out what's going on." Sam's eyeing Ryan, to make sure he doesn't slide under the table.

I ask softly, so Ryan doesn't hear, "Do you think we should call his mother?"

Sam snorts, "Do you think she even knows he's gone?"

Maybe. But I doubt very much she cares.

"He's fourteen!" I snap, wanting desperately for Dawn to be someone she isn't. I decide to hold off calling for the moment, until we get some more information.

Looking across at Ryan, I hear him softly humming some tune I can't make out, an occasional word finding its way into the mix. All the while he manages to keep one side of his face pressed flatly against the table, a pleasantly soused expression on the side that's still in view. It's going to be some time before he's making much sense, I think.

I'm pissed as hell that this kid can even get beer, but I guess I should be grateful. I'm sure that gang he hangs out with could have given him something far, far worse. Beer we can deal with.

"He's fourteen, Sam!" I repeat angrily, as though Sam didn't hear me the first time.

Sam just shakes his head, "He's wasted, is what he is."

As though on cue, Ryan rouses from his little song-fest, his voice turning a little angry, "Look, Mr. H – where's the fuckin' beer you promised?"

Sam, who has an old-school aversion to the 'f-word', admonishes gently, "Ryan, please don't say 'fucking'."

"Fuck." Ryan smirks happily.

"Ryan! I asked you not to use that word."

"No you didn't." Ryan's smirk deepens, "Fuck's not a partipis… parsip… participle." He seems self-satisfied that he gets the word out.

I'm surprised he remembers what a participle is through his alcoholic fog. But then, this kid's memory is nearly always fucking scary, I think, with silent apologies to Sam.

By this time, I've found our multi-vitamin supply, and I give a tablet to Ryan with his water. He glares at me a little, but swallows the pill, gulping down half the glass of water. He makes an awful face, and sets the glass down heavily, sloshing some of its contents on the table as his hand shakes.

"Shit," he mutters, rubbing at the water with one hand. He pulls at his hoodie, like he's going to use its tail as a mop, but I toss him a dishtowel instead.

As he determinedly swipes at the water, he manages to knock the glass over. Sam springs into action, catching the glass before it rolls off the table and shatters on the tile.

Ryan's eyes grow wide and he freezes. It breaks my heart as I realize he's probably wondering if someone's going to strike him. I dig out more dishtowels, and sop up the streaming water.

As I'm working, I speak to Ryan, "Honey, it's okay. It was an accident, that's all."

I pat his shoulder, and run my hand through his hair, glad to feel his body relax. 'Collapse' might be the better word.

I look at Sam, who gets a plastic glass with more water. He sets it down in front of Ryan, "Here, Ace, you can't hurt this one."

Ryan raises his head, and looks up at Sam, "You promised beer."

Sam squeezes his shoulder, coaxing, "Water first, okay?"

Eyeing the new water as though it's his sworn enemy, Ryan sighs. "'Kay. But then beer."

----------------------------------

Sam walks Ryan around the house, hoping the fresh air will help sober him up, but judging from my husband's face when they stumble back inside I don't think Sam's anxious to repeat the exercise.

"Tough trip, hon?" I ask under my breath.

Sam groans as he deposits Ryan back into his chair. "I swear, he's solid muscle. Do you know how heavy that much muscle feels when it goes slack? I thought I was gonna' lose him in your flower bed out back."

Ryan stirred, "I tole you I had ta' pee. I jus lost my balance…"

I wrinkle up my face as I mouth over Ryan's head, "In my flowerbed?"

Sam whispers, "I wouldn't suggest using the asters for your indoor arrangements."

Another tall glass of water later, Sam helps Ryan make his way to and from the bathroom. It's an improvement, I think, over my flowerbed.

The boy falls back in his chair, pouting when he sees another full glass of water sitting in front of him.

"No coffee?" he asks sullenly.

"Nope. No caffeine. It's a diuretic, and you're already dehydrated. And before you ask, no pain killers, either. Aspirin can upset your stomach, and Tylenol could interact with the alcohol in your system and make your liver explode. We'll deal with any headaches in the morning. For now? Best thing to do is drink water. The vitamin I gave you might help replenish some vitamin B, but other than that? Water."

He frowns, and I realize I've given him far more information than he wanted. However, he grudgingly picks up the glass, and drinks.

I suspect that his state of intoxication has knocked some of his normal filters out of commission.

Hoping that I'm right, I ask, "Did something happen, honey? Why were you drinking?"

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Dawn threw 'm out. No warning, no expla.. explain… expla-nae-tion, nothin'. Just packed his stuff in boxes, and set 'em out ona porch."

He takes a gulp of water before adding scornfully, "Oh, wait – she lef 'm a note."

I shake my head, sighing, "Trey? She threw Trey out?" It's not like it hasn't happened before, but maybe this seems worse to him somehow. Maybe it's how cold it is. How impersonal.

He wrinkles his eyebrows, grimacing at me like I'm lost out in left field somewhere.

He snorts, "Trey? Nah… he moved out las' month. Said he wasn't comin' back."

He seems to recall something, and laughs wryly to himself. Looking up at us, he smirks, "You know sumthin' funny?"

He motions us closer, as though he's about to confide some important secret. When we edge nearer, he says darkly, "Trey tole me she wuz cheatin' this summer, but I tole 'm he wuz fulla shit. I said she'd ne'r cheat on Rick. Stupid, huh?"

I gasp as what he's saying hits me. "Rick? Your mean your mom threw Rick out?"

He grimaces, dropping his face into his hands.

"Ryan? Was it Rick?" Sam sounds as surprised as me.

Ryan nods, but doesn't raise his head.

"Did she tell you why?" I'm still stunned.

He looks up at me as he clutches the plastic glass with a death-grip. "Said there was some new guy name a' AJ. She says he's 'exciting', whatever thaz supposed to mean."

Sam places his hands on Ryan's shoulders, kneading them gently. "I'm sorry, son. I know how much you like Rick."

"He wanted us to go with him to Austin," Ryan volunteers longingly, taking me by surprise. Somehow, I never imagine Ryan leaving here. Leaving us.

"She could still change her mind," I offer, even though something inside whispers that she won't.

"Uh-uh. Not gonna' hap'n," Ryan slurs. "Guess Trey's right. Rick's jus' too normal for Dawn."

Sam sighs, squeezing the boy's shoulders sympathetically.

Ryan's eyes are filled with sorrow as he tilts his head back toward Sam and says softly, "I liked normal."

"Oh, honey," I soothe, kneeling down beside him, folding him into my arms. He allows me to hold him cradled against my shoulder for a couple of minutes before he stirs.

"Gonna' be sick," he warns, just in time for me to move out of the way before he throws up on my tile.

-------------------------------

Sam helps Ryan get ready for bed while I call Dawn, but get no answer. I look at the number Ryan's just offered up for Trey, wondering if I can be civil on the phone.

I quickly gather that Trey's not exactly happy to hear from me, either.

"So you've got Ryan?" he repeats, managing to sound both angry and wary at once.

It's all I can do not to tear into the young man, demanding an explanation for Ryan's state of intoxication when Sam found him, but I know that would be counterproductive right now.

"Do you know if your mom's looking for him?" I ask quietly.

Trey laughs harshly, "Hardly. She kicked his ass out for the night – seems her golden boy asked one too many wrong questions."

The resentment in his voice is evident, but there's a hint of sadness there, too.

"Look, Trey, we'll keep him here tonight if that's okay," I offer, although what I mean is that we're keeping him whether it's okay with Trey or not.

"Sure. You keep him tonight. No room for him here, anyway," Trey agrees more readily than I'd anticipated. He's suddenly all attitude, and I distinctly hear some girl giggling in the background. Trey obviously has other things on his mind than Ryan's welfare.

"Fine. We'll call tomorrow," I promise, wondering if it would make any difference to Trey if I never called. I'm ready to hang up when Trey speaks.

"Mrs. Hart?" The attitude has disappeared.

"Yes, Trey?" I work to keep my voice even.

He hesitates, and I think maybe he's changed his mind, whatever he was going to say.

"Trey?" I prompt.

I hear him clear his throat, "Look, I'm glad Ry's got you guys to take care of him tonight. Honestly. But you know? All that stuff you fill him up with? It's just gonna' mean more disappointment for him down the road. 'Cause all that stuff about college? That talk about being an architect? That's a fuckin' fantasy. You gotta' stop loading him down with all that shit."

The concern in his voice is real, even through the bitterness that permeates his words. I close my eyes, my heart breaking.

"Don't, Trey," I plead. "Don't let Ryan stop believing in his dreams."

Trey's tone is unyielding as he responds, "Someone's got to teach him all those fucking dreams aren't ever coming true. If you're not gonna' do it, I will."

The line goes dead before I can respond.

-------------------------------------

Ryan's in bed, his eyes nearly closed when I walk in to check on him. Sam has the night light on, and I see he's left a plastic bucket by the bed, just in case. He's adjusting the covers when I move into the room.

"Night, Ace," he whispers, moving aside for me.

I sit on the bed, brushing back Ryan's hair as he nuzzles his head into the pillow.

I lean forward, and kiss his temple. "Sleep well, honey," I say softly.

He mumbles something that might have been 'goodnight', but his eyelids close and he says nothing more.

"I love you, Ryan" I whisper, my fingers tracing across his cheek after I give the covers one last tug.

He says nothing.

He's asleep.

----------------------------------

I watch the shapes that slither across the bedroom wall, formed by moonlight filtering through the live oak sentinel just outside our window. It seems right, somehow, that there are shadows while Trey's words haunt me.

I lie awake, as fear wraps its bony fingers around my heart and squeezes.

In the darkness, I offer prayers to a still and distant God.

_-------------------------------------_

_-------------------------------------_

_tbc_

_A/N: Reviews greatly appreciated..._


	4. Chapter 4 of 4

**Title: Seventeen**

**Part 4 of 4 **(Short Epilogue to follow)**  
**  
**Author:** ChaseII

**Story Rating:** T (overall content / language)

**Disclaimer:** The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, _et. al_. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made.

**A/N:** Unbeta'd -- all mistakes are mine!

**(Written for Brandywine's Hiatus Challenge Post)**

**Opening line** **prompt:** It consumes me, burning

**Word prompt:** languid, prayers, watercolor

**Summary: **_What if Ryan's wish to be 'seventeen' had meaning from another place and time?_

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**2003**

The pounding and the doorbell blend together like a bad percussion ensemble, rousing me from sleep.

I turn to Sam, who's trying to pry his eyes open. I look across his body to the clock, and see it's 6:08am. Which doesn't sound so early until you factor in that we went to bed a little after 3:00.

I'm the first to scramble out of bed, as I remember Ryan's sleeping in the guest room. He's a teenager – maybe he's oblivious to this full frontal assault. God knows he needs to get some rest.

Sam's sitting up groggily as I pull on sweats. He pleads with me, his dark brown eyes intense, "Meg, you know who that has to be. Why don't you let me talk to her?"

"I'm not afraid of her, Sam," I snap.

"You should be," Sam warns, as he reaches for his jeans. I ignore whatever else he's saying as I stalk toward the front door.

Ripping it open, I see Dawn's agitated face filling the space in front of me. She doesn't look like she slept at all last night. Her make-up is smeared across her face, the heavy mascara she uses staining her cheeks and making her eyes look like something straight out of some B-horror film.

"Where is he?" she demands without preamble. "Where the hell's my kid?"

I feel Sam's hand on my shoulder, stopping me from responding in kind.

He answers calmly, "Why don't you come inside, Dawn?"

She glares at me a moment before she looks up uncertainly at Sam. "Sure," she says ambiguously, "Why don't I just do that?"

When we move aside she strides in past us, angling toward the kitchen.

"Sit down, please," Sam says patiently, pointing to the table while I flip on the coffee maker, glad we loaded it last night.

I take a second to study her, noting that her hair looks like it's not seen a brush since yesterday. Her standard denim takes the form of a skirt and boxy jacket, which are paired with a rhinestone-studded pullover.

One side of her face bears evidence of being slapped, the red marks already deepening into bruises. It seems Ryan's not the only one with scars of whatever battle transpired last night.

"Where is he?" she demands again, looking straight at me. "I know you got him here."

"What happened last night?" I ask, as she sits down at the table. "Are you okay?" I make myself add in my best Sam-like 'caring' voice, drawing on every acting skill I've ever learned.

She raises her eyebrows irritably, "What makes you think I'm gonna' talk to you? I'm just here for Ryan."

"Ryan's sleeping," I report, still trying to keep my voice low, in the event he's miraculously slept through all the pounding and the ringing.

"What did he tell you?" she demands, raking her fingers futilely through her hair.

Nothing, I want to scream. He told us nothing. He didn't have to – the bruises on his face and across his shoulders told me more than enough.

"He's hurt, Mrs. Atwood," I answer, searching her face for any sign that she cares.

I want her to be a good mother. I want her to give a damn about her son. I want her to protect him.

Her voice is defensive as she protests, "If he is, it ain't my fault. I warned him AJ won't stand for mouthing off. He just doesn't listen."

My hands curl involuntarily, and I truly understand the temptation to hurt someone. I feel Sam's hand slide around my waist, his fingers pressing a warning into my skin. I blow out a breath, and reach for the coffee cups instead of Dawn's neck.

Sam indicates the handprint on her face and asks far too kindly for my liking, "Did AJ do that to you, Dawn?"

Her hand flies up to touch her cheek.

She looks at Sam as though he's somehow on her side, succumbing to his calm voice and concerned expression. When she speaks, she addresses him, "I told AJ he had to leave, until he calms down. Until he promises he'll keep his hands off me and Ryan."

"So, are you saying that you're going to let AJ back in your house?" I challenge, "After what he did to you? After what he did to your son?"

Her face darkens as she turns from Sam to me, "That's not any of your concern."

"I'm concerned about Ryan's welfare!" I counter, incredulous.

She swipes a hand back through her unruly mane again, "You try raising a teenager sometime. Then you'd understand how hard it is. I can't do it on my own."

I pounce on the small opening.

"Actually, I'd like nothing better than to help you," I assure her, trying my best to sound like I care about what's best for her.

She stares at me a long moment, her eyes unsettled.

I take heart that she seems to be listening, and press harder, "Look, Mrs. Atwood, I have a proposal. If it's … difficult… right now for Ryan to stay here with you and AJ, then let him stay with Sam and me for awhile."

I ignore the silent message Sam's sending me, instead appealing to any protective instinct she might possess as I add, "He'd be safe with us, I promise."

For just a moment, I think maybe I'm reaching her. Her lips tremble, and tears well up in her eyes. She squeezes her eyelids shut, and swipes across her face with the back of one hand.

I wait, my heart thudding inside my chest. Could it be this simple? All this time, did I only need to ask?

I'm not prepared for the venom in her voice as she tears into me, "How dare you? You think I'm just gonna' give you my kid? What goes on between me and Ryan? Ain't none of your fucking business! Now, you go get Ryan and bring him out here to me!"

I blink, "Please, you've got to believe me, Mrs. Atwood. I just want to help."

She stands up so quickly she knocks her chair over onto the floor. Grabbing it angrily, she sets it upright, all the while spitting at me, "I don't have to believe nothing you say."

She stops to take a breath, and glowers, "I think you've helped enough."

Cursing my own foolhardiness, I search for something that will smooth things over, finally settling on the truth.

"Ryan's always going to be your son. Don't you think I know that?"

She moves closer, her nose only inches from mine. I can smell her liquored ashtray-tainted breath as she snarls, "This is what I know. He's the only chance I got to make sure something in my life turns out good. And I ain't giving him up for you or nobody else, you hear me?"

I nod, wishing with all my heart that I'd listened to Sam, and let him do the talking.

She growls, "You can tell Ryan to get his ass outta' bed. Tell him that his mother's here, and that he needs to come home and clean up his damned mess before AJ gets back. And after that? You two can stay the hell out of our lives."

It turns out I don't have to tell Ryan anything. He's standing in the doorway, his eyes downcast.

"I'm coming, Mom," he mumbles. "Don't be mad at the Harts, please."

Dawn scowls at us, before grabbing his left arm roughly and pulling him toward the door.

He peers around his mother's back and whispers "Sorry," but his words are cut off when she jerks him to a halt.

She's furious as she lays into him, "Don't let me hear you apologizing to them, when it's me you've hurt with your smart-mouthing. I'm your fucking mother!"

"I know," he says softly. "Believe me, I know."

Dawn must not hear the resignation or despair that I hear in his voice. She stares at him a moment, and then smiles sloppily. "That's good, baby. That's real good."

Ryan flings one last apologetic glance in our direction before he exits through the door. She follows him, stopping to look back at us, her expression self-satisfied.

"See? He knows who he belongs to," she crows, triumphant.

Sam grabs my wrist, negating my angry retort. My eyes close in anguish as she slams out the door, herding Ryan unceremoniously into her car and screeching off.

I stand by the window, watching as her car disappears, fantasizing a reality where Ryan talks to the authorities. Sadly, I know it'll never happen. No matter how horrible she is, he's not about to desert her.

She'd have to be the one to go. God, is it horrible to pray that she abandons her son? That she disappears from his life?

I see Sam shaking his head, and find his eyes with mine.

"I'm sorry, babe," I whisper. "I should have kept quiet, like you said."

He takes me in his arms, kissing my temple lightly. "You tried, Meg. And for just a second, I swear she considered letting him stay with us."

I thought so, too. For one precious second.

"Coffee?" I ask, trying to find something to hold on to.

Sam nods and I go back to the kitchen, fill our cups with French roast, and return.

Taking his cup of java, Sam sinks down into the couch

"Fuck," he says quietly to himself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

-------------------------------------

Dawn finally relents a little, allowing Ryan to see us again, but not before she's spent weeks telling him he's betrayed her by spending time with us.

Consequently, Ryan's hanging out lots more with Trey these days, and far less with us. The few times I catch up with him, he's in a hurry. He comes to the library for new books – he still reads steadily – but he times his visits so that our paths are less likely to cross.

On those occasions I do see him, he's usually sporting bruises. If I ask any questions he says he wrecked his bike, or got into a fight with Eddie, or he simply refuses to answer.

I'm really worried this time, because I hear things about AJ that make my skin crawl. Ryan insists I need to stay out of it – he's adamant that AJ is none of my business. When I plead with him to say something to the police, or Social Services, he looks at me with dead eyes, and walks away.

Despite the fight with Dawn, I remind Ryan he's still welcome to crash with us anytime he wants to. That regardless of what Dawn's said, if he wants a safe place to stay, we'll work it out somehow.

However, I can tell my words are wasted. I know Ryan well enough by now to know he's not about to leave his mother alone with the vile man she's drug into their home. He doesn't look at what it's costing him to stay – he's just not made that way.

This is when I wish Sam and I were wealthy. That Sam worked for firms where he made money, rather than searching out projects where he makes a difference. But money's never been a driving factor for my husband, any more than it has been for me.

It's just – if we had money, we might be able to do more.

We might be able to give Ryan access to the dreams that Trey and Dawn and AJ are working so damned hard to strip away. Dreams they say were never meant for kids like him.

I'm encouraged when Ryan actually listens as Sam and I talk about scholarships and work-study programs and community colleges, but my hopes fade as his responses are at best politely distant. I know we're losing, and it breaks my heart.

The only real concession Ryan makes is that he agrees to sit early for the SAT1, angry that I paid for him to take it and yet guiltily unwilling to let my money go to waste.

I want him to see first-hand how bright he really is, since I'm convinced his mediocre grades in school bear no relationship to his true potential. He needs to see himself compared objectively to other kids, even if they're older. I just keep thinking it might convince him – convince someone – that his intelligence can't be wasted.

I have a strong feeling that he'll test well. Over the years, I've watched him breeze through Mensa quizzes, work the NY Times Sunday crosswords in ink, ace all sorts of standardized practice tests, blow through logic puzzles that twist the mind… and here's the teller –he does those things for fun.

-------------------------------------

It's a languid Sunday afternoon when Sam comes flying through the door. His eyes are shining, and he's so excited he's almost dancing.

"Smith called," he says, as he grabs me and swirls me in a tight circle.

"How cool is that?" I reply cautiously, wondering what our favorite do-gooder's said that makes Sam so energetic.

"He got the funding. For Guyana. The grants came through this week, but the architect who was supposed to be his co-chair? Can't commit to three years after all. The guy's daughter's having a baby, and there are complications, and he's just backed out." Sam's speaking so fast I'm having trouble keeping up with all the words.

"Sam?" is all I can utter, as I sense what's coming.

He grabs my hands, holding them in his, as he confirms, "Smith suggested me, Meg! They want me to be the co-chair!"

"You?" I echo dumbly, staring at his bronzed fingers like I've never noticed them before.

His voice sounds like a giddy teenager's as he enthuses, "Like you know, it's in Guyana. But not Georgetown, where it's so dangerous. This is in the western part of the country, along the Essequibo River. We'd live in Bonasika. It's just a village, and it's only accessible by boat."

He stops talking when he notices I've stopped breathing.

"Meg? Naomi's going to be there, too," he assures me.

I adore Naomi, Smith's wife – she's sweet and funny and completely irreverent. Her vocabulary makes Sam blush, but she's an amazing artist who touches people and places, coloring the spaces she inhabits, leaving lasting impressions on everyone she meets.

I try to smile, but I shiver instead.

"It's Ryan, isn't it?" he asks softly when I step back from him and drop numbly onto the couch. He knows me well enough to know it's not the country or the hardships that leave me cold.

The thought of leaving Ryan here alone is what's unbearable. Even though he doesn't have a lot to do with us these days, if we're not here, who will he have to turn to when he needs someone? Who will fight to save his dreams?

Sam swallows, "Believe me, Meg, you're not alone. I love the kid, too – I promise, I'd do anything in my power to make his life better."

"Anything?" I ask, even though I know Sam wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it.

"Anything. If you think Dawn's going to step aside, and let anyone really help Ryan, I'm first in line." He looks at me and smiles, "Or at least second, right behind you. I swear."

I struggle to keep the tears at bay, unable to form words.

Sam's eyes glisten as he sits down beside me, taking my hand in his once more. He says softly, "Say the word. I'll call Smith and turn it down."

I hesitate, at a loss as how to answer. Dawn's hold on Ryan is too strong – as long as she refuses to change her lifestyle, or move aside, we can only help Ryan if he lets us.

And he's not going to let us while she's in the picture. While he thinks he owes her his allegiance. While he struggles to protect her.

I remember her words to me. I remember her fierce self-absorbed determination to keep him – as some type of evidence that she hasn't completely failed as a person or a mother. And I hate her anew for holding on…

Sam says gently, "It's just, this? It's the type of project I've wanted for as long as I can remember. You, me, Smith, Naomi – working with local teams, bringing books, English, schools, roads, water, health centers, art …"

I look up at Sam, and see his eyes. The light that was so vibrant just moments earlier is shuttered, but it's still there, wavering like a candle flame.

So easily extinguished. Yet, given fuel, ready to explode in brilliant flame.

Can I deny Sam his dreams, on the off-chance we can still find a way to salvage Ryan's?

I squeeze his hand, pulling him closer beside me.

"Tell me more, babe. Tell me everything Smith said."

-------------------------

Ryan takes the news like we're telling him we're moving around the block. Like he doesn't care.

When we try to tell him we don't want to lose him from our lives, he laughs darkly, saying he heard that from Rick, too. We promise him we're coming back – that three years is not a lifetime. We don't make an issue of the fact he'll be eighteen by then, but it gives Sam and I a glimmer of hope just knowing Dawn's legal hold will have expired.

Ryan does make more of an effort to see us. He stops by the library a little more often, and comes by the house a few times to watch sports with Sam, but he refuses to talk about the move.

His SAT1 scores come in, and he brings me the envelop. I open it carefully, hoping what's inside proves I'm right – not to me, but to him.

The scores are not just good, they're phenomenal – Sam's overwhelmed and I'm practically delirious. Ryan's the only one who doesn't get too excited – although even he smiles a little when he reads he's in the 98th percentile.

I just hope that someone, somewhere really looks at these results, and realizes what an incredible intellect this kid possesses. I make copies of the results, and send them to his school, and to Child Services.

I keep a copy for myself – it goes into the box where I keep the sketch of a sheep muzzle he drew for me, the few photos he's let me take, countless newspaper write-ups of games and box-scores, a couple of school theatre programs, an unworn white shirt, and the assorted cards and notes he's given me over the years. I've already checked – the box fits perfectly into my carry-on luggage. Good thing – otherwise I'd have to have buy a bigger suitcase.

To my dismay, once we start packing boxes, Ryan avoids us entirely. Denial seems to be working for him, but it's not working very well for me.

----------------------------

As our departure date looms closer, I leave messages at his house and with Theresa that I want to see him, but I get no response.

Finally, the night before we're scheduled to leave town, we give up waiting for him to come to us and track him down, finding him hanging out with Trey and four or five other boys at the batting cages.

As we approach where they're gathered, we can smell the French fries and grilling hot dogs from the concession stand next door. We can hear the distinctive crack of metal bats colliding with horsehide and the rattle of the metal fence as those leaning against it shift their weight.

Eddie's batting, and Arturo and Trey are ragging on him because he keeps popping up. Ryan's got his back turned to them, facing in our direction as we walk up. He's got a cigarette in one hand, and a bottle in the other.

I see him turn toward the other guys, saying something before he throws the cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. Taking a swig out of the bottle, he walks in our direction. The other boys turn to watch, like we're the new entertainment.

"You shouldn't be here," he warns, "It's not safe here after dark."

"You're here," I point out.

He raises his chin defiantly, "Yeah, well, I can take care of myself."

"So I see," Sam says softly, his hand reaching out to touch a fresh cut on Ryan's face.

Ryan jerks his head away, batting at Sam's hand irritably. "Just leave it alone, okay?" He downs another swig of what we can now clearly see is beer.

He sees me staring at the bottle, and smiles wryly, "Don't worry – I've got it under control."

It's all I can do not to grab the bottle from his hands, but I don't want my last memory of our time together to be a fight. I search his eyes, but in the darkness, all I see is my own reflection. I see no trace of Ryan.

Trying to keep my voice steady, I explain, "We wanted to see you before we left. You know, just to say goodbye."

He stares at us for a second, and then shrugs, "Fine. Consider it said. Have a good life, guys. It's been real." He holds up the beer like he's toasting, his face a mirror of indifference. With a careless flick of his eyebrows, he turns abruptly on his heel.

"Wait!" I cry out, flinching. This wasn't how I pictured things… we can't leave things this way.

I hear Trey and the other boys laughing. They offer rude imitations of my pitiful plea, as Ryan keeps on walking.

The tears well up from deep inside, and I stumble into Sam's arms. Through a watery veil, I see Ryan hesitate, and stop.

He turns around to face us once more, only this time he's caught directly under a light. His eyes glisten, and his shoulders drop.

"Don't," he says, his voice unsteady.

Don't what? Don't beg? Don't cry? Don't leave?

"Please don't," he pleads, taking a tentative step in our direction.

My mind is racing, thinking through a dozen scenarios that range from turning down the project at the eleventh hour, to my staying behind while Sam goes on ahead, to working out some arrangement for Ryan to join us. I manage a wavering smile while I plan a different future, ignoring all the reasons why it could never be.

He's beside me now, head bent, looking up through his disheveled fringe, "I'm sorry," he says softly. "For how I acted just now, and… before. When I didn't come by."

He lifts his face, and I see the tears that he blinks back as he confesses, "It's just too hard, you know?"

Some of the boys start rattling the chain link, and call out to Ryan.

I hear Trey's voice chiding, "For God's sake Ryan, tell 'em to fuck off, and quit being a baby already."

Ryan's face contorts, and he spins, hurling the beer bottle toward the gang where it shatters against a pole just a few feet away from where Trey is standing. Glass and beer spatter in a wide arc.

"Fuck, Ryan!" Trey screams, shaking one arm and brushing at his jeans. "Fuck you!" Trey turns angrily back to Eddie and Arturo, kicking at the shards of glass now lying on the ground.

I've finally found my voice as Ryan turns back to us. "Ryan! Honey, you could have hit someone!"

He shakes his head, one corner of his mouth turning up, "If I'd have wanted to hit someone, I would have," he says confidently.

I expect he's right.

I reach out to touch him, "I promise, sweetie, this move isn't forever, okay? And we're still going to be there for you, even if it takes a while for us to communicate. We'll write each other all the time, and we'll call you as often as we can. You know that, right?"

He's biting his lip now, not answering.

"Ryan?"

He blinks, "I know what you're doing is more important, okay? I get that."

Sam jumps in, "More important than you? Is that what you think?"

"It's what I know, Mr. H. I've been reading about where you're going – they need guys like you two there. It is more important."

He's not asking – he's making statements he believes.

Sam shakes his head, "There's a lot to do there, that's for sure. But Ace? You're always going to be Numero Uno on our VIP list. Got that?"

Ryan rolls his eyes, and scuffs one foot across the sidewalk. "VIP? That's a first," he scoffs.

I look at him, standing there so uncertainly. Stretching out my arms, I'm thankful when he steps inside, allowing me to hold him for several seconds. Just before he backs out of my grasp he says softly, "That night I got sick at your house? When you thought I was sleeping? I heard what you said."

My eyes search for his, to see if he's saying what I think he's saying. He smiles self-consciously, his color rising as I memorize his face.

"I meant it," I whisper. "I love you, Ryan Atwood."

Sam's voice sounds husky as he adds, "I love you, too. That's not about to change, son."

Ryan looks down at his feet as he stumbles over his words, "Me, too. Love. You guys, I mean."

It fascinates me that someone who thinks so eloquently can be so lost for words. It doesn't matter. He's said enough.

I pull him back toward me, hugging him closer than before. Sam wraps his arms around both of us, and I feel Ryan's arms tightening, holding fast.

When Ryan backs away this time, we're all swiping at our eyes.

I laugh shakily, "So, you know when you're an architect, Sam's going to be recruiting you for these attempts of his to save the world."

The sadness rising in Ryan's eyes is palpable, as he shakes his head. I hear embarrassment in his voice when he says, "We all know I'm never going to be an architect. That was just a stupid kid's dream – I understand that now."

"That's not true, Ryan! You can be anything you want to be – just look at your test scores," Sam argues. "Meg has faith in you, and so do I."

Ryan backs up, putting distance between us before he speaks. "Funny thing… you're the only ones that do. And you're…"

He stops, closing his eyes, unwilling to complete his thought.

It's what he doesn't say that hurts.

Instead, he looks up, forces a smile, and plays the game one last time for me.

"Hey, I don't want you to worry about me, okay? Things are going to be better, Mrs. H, I promise. Remember? Everything's gonna' be good when I'm 'old'."

"When you're old?" asks Sam, clueless.

Ryan's smile is carefully controlled as he nods, his eyes locked onto mine, "Yeah. You know – when I'm seventeen."

This time when he turns around and walks away, I know he's not coming back. I stand there anyway, watching him join the other boys. Watching Trey swat at him, and seeing the other boys laughing as Ryan easily avoids his brother's reach.

Sam finally gathers me under his arm, guiding me gently to the car.

----------------------------------

It takes nearly three weeks before we're settled into our bungalow, and six weeks before my first letter to Ryan comes back marked 'undeliverable'.

By the time we journey again to Georgetown where I can make international calls, I learn the Atwood phone has been disconnected. I speak to the few people I can reach who might know something, but they have only sketchy information and lots of "I told you so's".

Ryan was arrested with Trey, they say – something about trying to steal a car. They read somewhere that Trey pled out, and was sent to prison. They think maybe Ryan was sent to Juvie, but they aren't really sure. When one 'friend' tells me to get over it – that Ryan ending up in jail was basically inevitable – I slam down the phone.

Desperately, I call Theresa, who says the Atwoods moved out of their house without any notice, and that she doesn't know where they've gone. She breaks down into tears over the telephone, as she confides that Ryan's completely disappeared.

Child Services and Juvenile Hall are dead ends – they claim they can't talk to me, because I'm not a relative or a guardian. I give them our contact details, and beg them to relay the information to Ryan, wherever he is. There's something in the mechanical way they respond that tells me they're not going to follow through.

I think they just don't want to be bothered, but in the end it's all the same.

We've lost track of Ryan.

I hope he's still got the intermediary address we gave him – if his letters just get that far, they'll be forwarded on to us. I pray that he'll let us know where he is, and how we can contact him. That he will understand we love him, no matter his mistake.

Every week when the mail boat comes, I wait to see if we have a letter, but the weeks and then the months pass, and it becomes clear that he's not going to write. I worry that he might avoid all contact, convinced he's let us down.

I try calling Theresa every time I make the difficult journey to Georgetown, hoping for any news. I give her my contact details again, and ask her to give them to Ryan if he surfaces. She promises that she will, but something in her voice sounds off. When I try talking to Eddie and Arturo, they are even less responsive.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**2004**

At some point in time my conversations with Theresa seem to change, and she becomes edgy. She finally says she doesn't have a clue what happened to Ryan, and tells me to stop calling. I can't help it – I call anyway, but she stops answering. I have to give up when she changes her telephone number to a new unlisted one.

Meanwhile, it's an odd life we're living – so rewarding with what we're doing here. Working with Smith and Naomi is a joy, and the project is developing beyond our wildest expectations. We're working what seems like 24/7, which doesn't give us much time to think about anything other than what we're trying to accomplish.

The health center is on target, we've got a working library, albeit with a minimum of books, the school is held in tents while the buildings are going up, Smith's waterworks plans are in motion, and the design for a bridge has been approved, with the materials coming in slowly by barge.

Naomi and I have been drafted to teach, assist with establishing updated curriculum, and train those who will one day succeed us. I spend my spare time, such as it is, with all things library-related. Naomi spends her evenings splashing color across our dominion, incorporating local dyes, materials, fabrics and traditions with her own enigmatic flair.

We wake up with packed schedules facing us every day, and go to bed exhausted, while time rushes on in blurs of rain and heat and sun.

It's the still moments that are the hardest.

It's watching the kids knock around a baseball. Catching a glimpse of a child's delighted smile when he learns a new word.

Writing another letter I leave sealed inside his box.

It's in those moments I realize just how heavy an empty space can be.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_**March 2005**_

_The smell of blackened sauce permeates our bungalow, as the room slowly comes back into focus. My face is wet, and I realize warm tears continue to track down my cheeks and drip off my nose and chin. I use both hands to dry my face, while I push myself unsteadily to my feet._

_I pick up the calendar with shaking hands, rubbing my index finger slowly across his name, as it consumes me, burning… _

_Always the loss, the fear, the grief._

_And now, this huge and horrible 'not knowing'. _

_Where he is. _

_What he's doing. _

_What his life is really like at seventeen._

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_fin _

_(short 2006 epilogue to follow)_

_A/N: Reviews always appreciated._


	5. Epilogue 2006

**Title: Seventeen**

**Author:** ChaseII

**Story Rating:** T (overall content / language)

**Disclaimer:** The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, _et. al_. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made.

**A/N:** Unbeta'd -- all mistakes are mine!

**XXXXXXXXXXX**

**Epilogue**

**November 2006**

**XXXXXXXXXXX**

I'm sipping tea as Sandy and I sit around the breakfast counter. It's all I can do not to go out to the pool house, just so I can watch Ryan as he sleeps.

Even here, he occupies my thoughts.

After all these months he's lived away from home, I can hardly believe he's back with us. At least in body, if not entirely in soul.

It's been so hard for him – holding her as she grew cold and lifeless in his arms. Surviving while she died.

And we didn't help. We'd made so many mistakes earlier – letting him drift too far away. His pain and anger only highlighted the distance that had come between us.

His moving out, his reckless bent on revenge, his dark and disturbing self-punishment, his refusal to let us comfort him – all evidence of just how wide the chasm between us had become.

We've fought so hard to bring him back. To earn his trust again. To mold us all once more into a family.

It's been slow, and painful, and sometimes just plain frightening, but it's worth every battle we've been waging just to know he's finally home.

The telephone rings, startling me out of my reflections.

Sandy's quicker than me, swallowing his coffee before he speaks.

"Hello, this is Sandy Cohen."

I watch him, as his eyebrows wrinkle.

"Who?" He sounds a little wary.

"Yes, that's right. Ryan Atwood, from Chino." Sandy's wariness is unabated.

When I move closer, he shakes his head, holding up a finger. His eyes widen as he listens to whoever's on the phone.

"He's never mentioned you," he says carefully when he speaks again.

He listens a bit more, and then I see him smile a little before he says, "He has a way of doing that, that's for sure."

"Sandy!" I grumble, wanting information.

He's shaking his head, "If you read about that, then you know he's been through a lot in the last few months."

After another minute, he frowns a little as he says firmly, "Not without me or my wife on the line."

The frown is replaced by a tiny smile, one dimple making a brief appearance as he seems satisfied by whatever he's hearing. His voice is much warmer when he speaks again, "I assure you, that's what we care about, too."

He listens for another few seconds, and picks up a pencil, writing down a name and telephone number.

"I'll give it to him," he promises, "If he doesn't – _we_ don't – call you back, I will."

After another minute, he says goodbye and hangs up the telephone.

"What was that?" I demand.

Sandy's expression is thoughtful, "Someone from Ryan's past, apparently."

That makes me nervous. Ryan's past is rarely good.

"Who?" I ask, reminding myself firmly that not facing that past is not an option. Blessed with the miracle of his survival, we're not going to repeat our prior mistakes.

Sandy looks quizzically at the notepad, "She says her name is Megan Hart."


End file.
